


Folly Of The Wise

by heyitsdia0



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1920s, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, Feels, Jealousy, Love Poems, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Slow Dancing, i am considering finishing this, not really sure how to rate this yet give me like a week, now onto our sponsored programming, see I’m tagging to hold myself accountable, that’s the plan anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 15:33:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyitsdia0/pseuds/heyitsdia0
Summary: Love seeketh only Self to please,To bind another to its delight,Joys in another’s loss of easeAnd builds a Hell in Heavens despite.-William Blake
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Folly Of The Wise

He was up to something again. He had to be. There was something positively  _ parlous _ in the air, and Crowley was up to that something. The last time he’d mentioned it to Crowley had been just before the holy water incident - that’s what he referred to it, at least - and Crowley had just guffawed at him. 

“You still think that, angel?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, I-”

“You and your shibboleths, that’ll be the end of me, not some blasted demon that’s just come up for a quick check-in. You know that, well as I do. I may be a demon, and I’m not going to...y’know.”

“What?” Aziraphale asked, although he actually did know. Crowley glanced at him forlornly. His eyelids were drooping again. They’d just partaken in far too much nondescript alcohol; originally it had been moonshine, which neither of them had drank before. Unfortunately, they decided to and found it to be disgusting, so it was promptly changed to something else, of which they could neither tell nor remember. 

“You know what I mean,” he mumbled. “Killing people. S’not my thing.”

And he’d been right. He’d said that around 1859, during Bleeding Kansas. It was technically out of their territory, but Gabriel had explained that everyone else was busy dealing with the fallout of the Crimean War, and he was actually very busy himself wondering what was going to happen next in the saga that was the Sickles-Barton Key affair, so it was up to him to take care of things. And naturally, Hell had to send a wily adversary. 

That adversary was Crowley. 

The conversations that followed were everything Aziraphale had hoped for, lively and comforting and sweet and _with_ _Crowley,_ but the last one they had shared before they both departed had stung. 

It had been just like the one before it. They were arguing again, and there had been too much to drink for both parties.

“M’a demon,” Crowley was saying, as he often said while drunk. It helped to state it several times, to reinstate what they were both clearly forgetting: the invisible boundary between them. And too often, more often than Aziraphale liked to admit, he liked it when Crowley was like this, right before he’d say that; because they would come so close to touching his head would spin. 

And then he’d remind himself that Crowley was a demon. And that he was an angel, and that demons just don’t get close with angels. Not like that. It was so simple, so easy to say but nearly impossible to actually carry out, especially when said demon was incredibly attractive. 

And that night, Aziraphale had also been a little too drunk, and he’d forgotten the boundary too. He’d forgotten everything. He’d forgotten that he wasn’t human. 

“I know dear,” he’d said, settled comfortably on a bunk in their tent. It was really his tent, but Crowley had stayed over much that it had become theirs. “Listen…”

Crowley was leaning up against the bunk, his head tilted at just the right angle that he could look into his eyes. His hair was a mess. It’d been cut short, in a simple American style, but was long enough to slightly cover his ears. He’d grown facial hair along his jawline, an unusual but not unwelcome appearance. He looked to be the epitome of modern masculinity, with his skin toned and muscled now; but the both of them knew it meant nothing. It was just hair and skin. 

Aziraphale had noticed that others did not see it that way. Women blushed and fanned themselves at the sight of him; when the Ruffians visited a ladies luncheon to give a lecture, one woman nearly fainted when he said  _ ‘How do you do, madam?’ _ There had been men too, but not as many. He did not seem remotely aware of the attention. 

Crowley looked up at him now, and for the first time in a long time he became aware that while hair was just hair, the way it fell across his forehead was making his mouth water, and the way his muscles moved and shifted caused him to cough. 

“Yes, angel?”

Two words. Aziraphale didn’t know how to describe how he felt about Crowley; some days he felt positively angered with him. But other times, especially on nights like these, he felt different. His heart beat quicker, and he always felt warm. 

“Just a bit of...erm...tachycardia.” He said, tugging at his collar. “Right.”

He stood to go, but then painfully realized this was his own tent. He was trapped. He wasn’t about to let Crowley slip through his hands, and yet…

He turned and looked at Crowley, who had not moved from his spot. 

“Crowley, do you also suffer from tachycardia?”

“What?”

“Tachycardia. When the heart beats-”

“Quickly? Yes, Aziraphale, I know.”

“I see.”

“I don’t think we can...suffer from those kinds of conditions,” Crowley said slowly. “So why is your heart beating so fast?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale would shut the conversation down if he had to.  _ I don’t know  _ would do just that. It closed all open doors of talk, those simple words. Whatever the truth was, Aziraphale didn’t want to know. And he couldn’t possibly let Crowley know - after all - he was the enemy. 

The truth was, Aziraphale knew that Crowley was far from it. Crowley had been sent to sway the Free-staters to become Border-Ruffians, although he hadn’t found much success, even during conversations with Atchison, who already seemed to have the mind of a demon. Crowley didn’t like slavery - everytime he saw it, or when it was mentioned, his nose would crinkle and he’d excuse himself. He’d been against it since Mesopotamia, when Aziraphale had explained it to him, and since then he’d done everything in his power to avoid playing any hand in it. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but admire him. He was so good, so sweet and kind, and yet he was so, so far removed from that title that he only shared relation to it by name.  _ It just wasn’t fair.  _

“You know, I never understood it,” Crowley muttered, interrupting his thoughts. Aziraphale looked up. “Hm?”

“Using people as manual labor. I mean, m’demon, I know it should make sense, but it doesn’t. And the fact that there’s a war going on over it-”

“We are not to call it a war,” Aziraphale said quickly, kneeling in front of him. His hands were now very close to covering his mouth. “This is not a war. It’s a conflict. But it cannot lead to war, it is not a war now, and it never will be.”

Crowley smirked. “You’ve been listening to Gabriel, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale faltered. “Yes. Is that so bad?”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “I think so.”

“And why is that?”

“He’s a dick, that’s why.”

Aziraphale’s hand clamped over his mouth. “You can’t say that either,” he whispered. “I got a letter from him in 538, and then right after the Globe Theatre. They’re watching, Crowley.”

Crowley lifted his hand from his mouth. He placed a kiss against his palm. It made him shudder. He did this to him as a sort of comforting, friendly gesture, but it couldn’t be farther from it. It made him feel a way he had never felt when a human friend kissed his hand, or when they kissed his cheek to greet him all those years ago. It wasn’t the same. And it didn’t make any sense. 

“You’re paranoid again.”

“I’m just preparing, just in the event-”

“In the event of what?” Crowley snapped. “It’s not like they’re going to barge in here, Aziraphale! They don’t listen to us. They don’t care what either of us do, as long as our work gets done.”

Aziraphale stood up now. He was a little miffed. First he had to leave the bookshop to take care of things in America, and on top of that he had to take part in a senseless….

He would not call it a war. It was forbidden; Gabriel had said that talking always leads to action for humans. But he’d heard it firsthand; he knew what was already on its way. It would be a long few years for the Americans, who could not seem to agree on basic human rights. 

“You know that isn’t true,” he said quietly. “I just…”

“Just what? What could you possibly say that would change how I feel?”

“I just want you to be safe, Crowley.”

Those words were enough to cause him to go. Something about safety, it was always that, wasn’t it? Aziraphale then supposed that demons could never really be safe. Not after She had sent them out. He grabbed his hat, a nice Broadway style with a wide brim, and walked out. They’d picked it out in a shop together. The memory made Aziraphale plummet onto the bunk, miserable and alone. 

They didn’t talk again until 1862. 

* * *

  
  
The ballroom was gorgeous. Aziraphale hadn’t heard of it, but Crowley had mentioned that the Hammersmith Palais was the best dance hall Britain had to offer; and something about the way he looked - maybe it was the twinkle in the eye - or the way he licked his lips - that piqued Aziraphale’s interest. 

All of his superiors had disparaged dancing. It was immoral, it was against what God wanted, and above all it wasn’t angelic. Angels don’t dance.

Well, they didn’t, until Aziraphale learned the gavotte. 

And it really hadn’t been an issue. All the men at the gentlemen club he frequented were friendly, kind men who wanted to ease the daily stressors of their lives. Dancing, playing cards, and smoking seemed to be the most favorable options. He just didn’t see what was so evil about it. 

So here he stood, standing at the corner of the magnificent Palais, dressed in dancing clothes, watching his sworn enemy discuss realpolitik, who was occasionally checking a half-hunter pocket watch and then his wristwatch, which appeared to be incredibly modern and much more advanced. 

It made perfect sense that Crowley would be sophisticated. Since the Eden days, he’d watched humans carefully, awaiting their next move. Every decade he’d change his hairstyle - sometimes two, three times - just to fit in. As of late, Aziraphale had noticed he’d taken extra precautions. For God's sake - rather, somebody’s sake - he was wearing cufflinks and carrying a  _ cane _ . Aziraphale smiled a little. He always stood out. Always. And somehow it was never a bad thing. Nobody laughed at him, nobody called him soft or stupid. He was beautiful, amazing, sleek and...

Aziraphale felt his stomach churn. 

His mind was wandering again. Someone had mentioned that, the last time he’d met with his superiors. They’d said his head was in the clouds, and he’d joked that he’d put in a good word for them upstairs. 

He learned not to joke so easily after that. It had become increasingly apparent that Crowley was the only  person  being on Earth that understood him. And that was a scary thing. Why, of all creatures, did it have to be the  man being he was meant to smite at any given moment he ran into him? 

Tonight, Aziraphale had come prepared. He’d approached his tailor nervously, asked for whatever the other men wore, and let him search through the macaronic sea of tape measures and needles and thread in the drawer of his bureau for a new catalog.

“It’s a German magazine,” the tailor murmured, pointing at pictures of finely dressed men. Aziraphale peered at them closely. They were attractive, but not so much as Crowley. He felt ashamed suddenly.  _ Why had he just done that? _ The tailor didn’t notice, though, and continued. “I’m German by birth, you see; so I get these from friends. I hope you don’t mind. This one is a year old: how would you like a morning coat, Mr. Fell?”

“Er-that’s fine,” Aziraphale replied, not really paying attention. “Thank you, Mr. Schneider.”

Aziraphale felt slightly uncomfortable in the dark Oxford grey that Schneider had designed, but was so appreciative that he wore it for him anyways. The inside was lined with light cream and blue satin, and a sprig of wisteria was pinned to his lapel. He hoped Gabriel wouldn’t check to see what miracles he’d conjured up - it was all he could do to keep it fresh and sweet. Crowley had given it to him, after a trip to China during the fallout of the Tang Dynasty. 

He watched furtively as Crowley mingled with the crowds; each movement was sinuous, calculated, and calm. He did not pay any heed to the multiple women staring at him, or the several men looking up as he passed them by. Aziraphale couldn’t help but look either. Crowley looked absolutely seductive when he slicked back his hair. 

Aziraphale busied himself with his dance card as the tall dark figure approached him. He stared at Crowley’s cap toed shoes, then his two watches, and then finally his outfit. 

He wore a black dinner jacket, black trousers, and a starch white dress shirt that was screaming  _ I’M A RICH CAPITALIST  _ with gloves to match. 

“Aziraphale,” he said coldly, offering a hand. Aziraphale took it. “It’s Mr. Fell, Crowley.”

“Right. Yes,” Crowley murmured. He leaned in to whisper something, his breath hot against his ear. “And I’m…”

“Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley made a noise. “Euhm….” He was interrupted by three fabulously dressed people. A man wearing a mohair jacket slapped Crowley on the back.

“Crowley, you haven’t introduced me to your friend in the glad rags!” 

Crowley, who’d tensed, suddenly loosened up a bit. “Right. William, this is…”

“Mr. Fell,” Aziraphale said, holding out a hand. “How do you do?”

“Oh, he’s so polite,” a woman said. Aziraphale gaped at her outfit - dresses were much shorter than he’d remembered - but she looked so well and lively that he didn’t dwell on it. “Does he have a first name, too?” 

“Er-” Aziraphale tried to remember his chosen first name. “Ezra.”

“What a name! How peculiar!” The woman replied, laughing. “I’m Gertrude.”

“Lovely to meet you.”

“And I’m Ernest,” the other person said, who was a man dressed in deep green velvet. “Lovely to meet you, Ezra.”

Aziraphale could feel a slight tingling along his spine at their exchange. “And to you.”

He noticed the wry look on Crowley’s face. “Right,” he muttered, clasping his hands. The group looked to him, the authority of the room. After all, he was the most suavely dressed. “Let’s go dancing, shall we?”

Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was mad. Gertrude took his hand, and then William and Ernest followed them as they walked to the center of the room; and Aziraphale, who was only beginning to realize what he’d gotten himself into - was left to his own devices. 

As an angel of war, he was not meant to follow. He was meant to lead - and then a  _ demon _ of all creatures had gone before him - Gabriel would be furious. 

But Aziraphale wasn’t. 

He just couldn’t understand why.

**Author's Note:**

> I really don’t think this is any good. Since I’m so close to finishing WIR I don’t know if I should keep writing...let me know if you guys want more of this. I don’t know! Maybe someone finds some value in it. I gave this one a title and tags because I’d hate for it to go nameless it’s whole life. I took it from a quote by Samuel Johnson: ‘Love is the wisdom of the fool and the folly of the wise,’ if anyone is interested :)


End file.
